Ipseity
by slopes
Summary: They had to be careful, or they could get lost in the job. One-shots for The Departed
1. First Night

_"Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible."_

-Mother Teresa

Billy knew the first night in jail would be his toughest. Most new prisoners were too naive to foresee the hellish future of their sentences. They would not crack until day three or four. However, Billy had been simmering all throughout his expulsion, the court hearing, and his sentencing. When he donned the orange suit and stepped inside his cage, the conviction finally became reality.

He was an undercover cop to two people, and an egregious felon to the rest of the world. His identity was protected somewhere in the void of a computer's memory; his physical being left solely in his own hands. No one would shield him from gang violence or help find food and shelter. No one would pity or offer condolences for the sacrifices he made.

In his new starting image, he was a piece of shit, scum hated by all. To the good people, Billy was a failure, an ex-cop who disgraced their society by his turn. To criminals he was an enemy; still as despicable as any current commissioned officer. Until his arrest, he had at least escaped persecution by meeting with the two detectives that assigned his case. Now though, even they could not risk affiliation with him; Billy was alone.

He was isolated in a small concrete box with one iron barred wall. There was a rusty spring cot, and tin bowl for a toilet; that was all. His neighbors were thieves and drug dealers, around twenty on his block, and over two hundred in the whole facility. Security was lax and barely effective. The guards had all disappeared and locked the exit by nine pm.

Soon after, the overhead lights in the hall abruptly blackened, and his insides finally reached boiling. Hot water poured from Billy's eyes, and he could not cease the flow. In the shadows, he lay on his bunk, turned to the wall so no one could see. His stomach rolled, riling in intense shame, but he let not one quiver outwardly show. Nor did he hiss or shout or sob, or release any such reactive noise from his suffocating lungs. For the purpose of his job, he maintained the composure of a stiff corpse, hoping that the other inmates would believe he had fallen to sleep.

Knowing he was a cop under a guise did not repay the reputation he sacrificed. The years of hard work he had spent climbing out of a ruffian and murderous life were gone. He had nothing left to show or take pride in. The only way to reclaim any dignity would be to persevere once again; suffering twice and upping the stakes to his life in this go.

Grief and rage overpowered him, burning like a curling hot wire against his ribs. How could the law steal away all his freedom and earnings? How could the detectives rip apart his ambitions and turn his own desire to do good against him? For all his childhood mistakes, nothing amounted to this sort of cruel punishment. He felt abused; he felt lost; he felt hopeless; he felt alone.

The pain surged through his lungs, causing him to hyperventilate, and shoving bursts of air up his throat. He wanted to hit something, but that would draw attention and let the other inmates know of his breakdown. No. His next months of sentence would only worsen if anyone realized his emotional weakness.

Quickly, Billy rolled his head flat into his soggy pillow and silently dry heaved. The warmth of his fast flowing tears smothered his cheeks, acting like glue between cloth and skin. He tasted salt and dust, the papery texture of the sheet sucked in with his breath, choking out most of his gasps, and muffling the rest.

There the desire to inflict pain still raced through him, but it was fading as his body weakened from the oxygen deprivation. His limbs were calming, his mind fading. Billy held his head down longer, enjoying the relief that he had suddenly attained. He did not move, but remained stationary, letting himself ebb further and further away from his predicament. As his blood rush slowed, he stopped thinking altogether. He listened to the sounds of the cells, taking them in, but no longer considering what they meant.

Others were talking, whispering across the hall in between their bars. He paid just enough attention to realize they were recounting parts of their day. There may have been a coded message somewhere in the words, but Billy was too tired now to analyze anything. He also heard his neighbor pacing on the floor, and a Hail Mary coming from another nearby cell. Prayer, he considered, with detached curiosity. The desperate sometimes found a reason to live in God, perhaps he would try to too someday.

Right when he felt he was about to pass out, Billy lifted the pressure from his head, easing up just enough to breath. The cool night filtered his lungs with rejuvenating life, though none of the healing touched his heart. What was he to assure himself of? At this point he had nothing, and was nothing. Tomorrow he would be forced to pick himself up or become the bitch of some surly boss in the jail's corrupted system, but tonight he mourned.

He allowed the tears to streak for hours.

And when the sky first started to turn a royal blue, Billy quickly wiped all evidence into the flimsy bedding. It was the last time he would ever cry while in prison.

_It was such a great movie! I loved every character and every death made my heart stop! Poor Billy Costigan, I feel you were cheated in life._

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from _The Departed_, or the quotes. **


	2. Inglorious Shopping Trips

(Colin Sullivan in childhood)

_It is too difficult to think nobly when one thinks only of earning a living._

–Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Chicken, eggs, tomatoes, and jam.

Colin scurried through the corner market stores' aisles easily locating the items of the shopping list tucked in his hand. On his arm, he carried the little red basket numbered 09; it was his self-claimed basket, the one he used every time he came to the grocer.

Familiar with the task, he sorted for the egg packages containing all unbroken shells, scoured the barrels for the juiciest cleanest tomatoes, and made sure to grab the peach jam and not jelly. However, at the butcher's counter he paused. The price per pound on the chicken had been raised by fifty cents, and he already felt guilty buying the meat at its lesser expense.

Colin's grandmother always wanted him to eat chicken, insisting he needed the protein or it would stunt his growth. Although, Colin loved the taste, especially the tender way his grandmother cooked the breasts, he knew it cost them several extra dollars.

Of course chicken was the least expensive meat on the rack, but his grandmother could save over ten dollars, maybe twelve, by cutting their regular weekly purchase quantities in half. And in ten weeks, that could amount to a whole extra hundred or up to hundred twenty dollars they could use to pay the house taxes and other expenses.

He had told this to her countless times, only to receive the same response: 'a growing man needs more attention than a house'. He knew it would be the same this time as well if returned home, no poultry in the bag. And then he would be sent right back to market and not let inside the house until he retrieved a skinned bird.

So Colin tried to ignore the jacked prices and reluctantly asked the butcher for a breast. As per routine, the bloody butcher handed him the smallest breast available. Buying the lightest bird was the only compensation Colin had in the money saving matter, though he was certain his grandmother would disapprove if she ever found out. Until she did though, it eased his guilt just slightly.

As he walked back to the storefront to pay for his goods, Colin counted two customers in the aisles besides him. Being an early Tuesday afternoon, most adults still were in work, and the market was basically empty. It was a relief to Colin. He was embarrassed when people who often saw him shopping recognized that he always bought practically the same things. It was enough shame that the clerks could sometimes ring up over half his items before he even finished collecting everything. Chicken, eggs, jam, bread, and usually whatever vegetable was on sale always were on the list. Anything else, like oil, flour or spices, was a wildcard which he picked up seldom. He and his grandmother rarely indulged in the luxury sweets or other costly goods.

Emerging to the front two cash registers, Colin cringed. Mrs. Callaghan was already fastidiously pushing buttons on the cash register. The plump elderly woman only paused to give him a sweet smile and wrinkled hand beckoning. Holding his sigh, Colin forced himself to return a wave and approach. He gingerly placed the basket on the warped wooden counter of her station.

"I just need to weigh that chicken and the tomato and you'll be all set." She beamed to herself, taking the time place each item in the scale and calculating their prices separately. Colin kept grinning, not letting the woman onto his chagrin.

"Thank you Mrs. Callaghan." His usual polite worded response. How he wished the woman would stop predicting his groceries, an indicator that she knew just how poor he and his grandmother lived. She never did though, and probably never would.

Before she could give him the price, Colin had the money out and in his hand. He knew it would be near twelve dollars, so a ten and two ones were already lying flat on the counter.

"The total will be thirteen dollars and eighty nine cents, and how is your granny, Colin? Was she inspired by the Priest's sermon this week?"

"She's fine, and yes, she has been making daisy and dandelion bouquets for the hospital patients all week." He replied, putting the rest of the payment on the counter. There was no rush, but Colin was fascinated by how slow Mrs. Callaghan moved. It seemed as though she deliberately picked up each bill and coin on at a time. He wondered if she was trying to stall, bored at work and looking for conversation.

"Lovely! And you are delivering those bouquets I presume?" Mrs. Callaghan finally finished the coins, but had not yet retrieved a brown paper bag.

"Of course, Ma'am."

"Good, it's for the unfortunate sick and not just your grandma, you know."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Colin watched her stuff each item in a bag, stacking them with practice. The eggs went on the bottom, the chicken, jam, and then tomato. Delicately, she pushed it back within his arms reach. A year ago she would have told him to mind the eggs at the base, and not to forget the basket on the counter. By now though, he needed no more reminders of the handling or departing procedures.

"Alright, I'll see you in a few days hopefully, and tell you're grandma I commend the charitable bouquets. Take care of yourself, Colin."

With a curt, but nonetheless polite, goodbye, Colin took his goods in one arm, returned little number nine basket to the stock pile next to the door, and left. Perhaps he could not afford many groceries now, but he would make sure that life would not always be that way.

_One for Colin Sullivan. Someone else liked reading it so I will share it. (the reader only watched the action scenes in the movie though, haha).  
_


	3. In want of a father

(Colin in childhood)

_Poverty is the Parent of Revolution and Crime._

–Aristotle

He hasn't had a parent in years. He can't even remember his old mother and father, if they had been nice to him or ignored him. Colin dreamed about going for walks around the block with his pop, or rocking in his mother's hands. He couldn't tell if these were faded memories or merely imaginations crafted from his longing. Either way, he liked to indulge in them. They made his heart warm.

He wondered if Mr. Costello could ever be like a father to him. He was a strict guy, but he had been generous to give Colin a job in his garage. And Colin thought Mr. Costello sort of favored him over the other men there. The boss often distracted him from work to talk about society and life's lessons. Isn't it a typical behavior for fathers to give advice to young men?

Colin attended work after school, and was not surprised when Mr. Costello appeared and pulled him aside. Colin was grease covered, in the middle of an oil change, and Mr. Costello was wearing a white suite, but the old guy hardly seemed aware. He patted the boy gently on the shoulder. Another paternal thing Colin thought.

"What's up boss?" He asked, sticking his black hands into his pockets to keep from accidentally smudging oil on the guy.

"Boss? Since when did you stop calling me Mr. Costello?" Mr. Costello wheezed and stared down at him in confusion. Colin wasn't sure if it was a question or an interrogation.

He did not understand. Technically, Mr. Costello paid him to work in the garage, so he was Colin's boss. Colin did not realize what significance the word had for the man. All he knew was that it put a spotlight gaze on him.

"I heard one of the other guys call you that. It's how everyone always refers to you in the garage." He tried to explain.

Mr. Costello paused to give him an up and down inspection. He wore his burnt spectacles on the end of nose, peering over top for a better view. When he retracted, Colin read his familiar signs: the puffing of his chest, the lift of his nose. He was going to get another lecture.

He waited patiently in silence, intent to make up for the upsetting Mr. Costello. He hadn't known he wasn't supposed to call him boss, or perhaps use any other title than the guy's surname. He never wanted to offend his role model.

With an almost wink, Mr. Costello grinned and began to talk.

"Boss is sort of a formality to me; those who have been collared and tied in the humdrums of grudge work use it because they are entirely reliant on my guidance. You're an intelligent kid, you don't need me to tell you how to take a piss each time you have to go, do you?"

Colin shook his head, disgusted by the very thought. He figured out what Mr. Costello meant though. Colin did not want to be one of those guys who blindly followed all orders. He could think for himself and make his own decisions.

"I want us to be on colloquial terms, you know what colloquial means right?" Colin nodded. "Think of me as more than a boss, trust me right now so we can become much more to each other in the future."

Mr. Costello tapped the work table next to him, looking at the vast array of grimy tools covering its surface. His smile was contagious, and Colin found himself fighting to keep his own face straight professional. His voice betrayed him, taking a merrily high pitch when he responded.

"I will, Mr. Costello."

He could not help his excitement. Mr. Costello talked about a relationship building between them. His dreams for a father could have been coming true. Costello may have wanted a son.

"I have to go back to work now, as do you, but feel free to stop in anytime." Colin heard the compassion in the statement, and smiled back as the man returned to his office.

Mr. Costello was definitely in his favor. If Colin kept up the hard work, he could have a foster father real soon. Colin traced his fingers over the outline of the tools on the table. He hoped he would not have to wait long, though he would be patient for years if it meant having someone as prestigious as Mr. Costello for a pop.

He was keen; he knew the big man was weighing his value right now, comparing him like a brand to others. Mr. Costello valued business to the core. He would need to be certain Colin was worth the expense of his time, money, and labor. Colin had to be an asset.

No, not just a good purchase, he would become Mr. Costello's greatest asset. Colin would show the man he was worth more than any other kid or guy on the streets. He would keep working in the garage, and dig for information of Mr. Costello's side businesses.

An idiot couldn't miss the signs that Frank Costello did more than just run a garage. Colin knew the man was into some illegal things, but he did not care. Mr. Costello was playing the game of life, making a living for himself and attaining his desires. Colin was eager to learn the secret trade, to prove further his use to the man and so that he could support himself as well.

He would be a better son than Mr. Costello could ever conceive.

_The thought that maybe Frank got the idea to use Colin as family from Colin. As a kid Colin revered Frank, and I can't blame him. Frank showed him hard work makes dreams come true. _

_Anyways, if I ever accidentally refer to Colin as Sully, let me know and I will try to fix that! Sorry! I started writing these with the name Sully (did that get used in the movie? I can't remember). Hope you enjoy!_


	4. Collapsible Chair

_Whatever is begun in anger, ends in shame._

-Benjamin Franklin

The Deerfield town high school hosted one type of student: the rural Massachusetts workhorse. It did not have gang problems or aspiring Nobel Prize winners. It had mediocre athletes, desk employees, and farmers. Nothing better or worse than the average person. The school was maintained nicely, no graffiti or broken windows. The teachers received updated equipment every two to five years, and an annual restock of paper and pencils. The grounds were cut weekly. The track and fields swept and painted before each sporting event. The kids dressed in normal polos, tees, jeans, and khakis that accorded to school rules. Deerfield was not the district to let delinquents slip through society.

Billy knew the rules and never had trouble with them before. When he was in the western part of the state, he always acted on his best behavior. Except for a few days where he forgot about an assignment, he normally did not skip school. He was on the football team in the fall and ran track in the spring. He had friends from his activities and teachers encouraged him to join the honors or advanced classes. Billy usually never stood out amongst the hundreds of other students.

But today he was having a hard time keeping his nonchalant façade. The unit in Government class was urban poverty and crime; his teacher was supposed to be focusing on the immigrant roots of the coastal populations. But for thirty minutes, the lecture had been dehumanizing thugs, castigating the immigrants who turned to crime and violence rather than seeking legal income. What the bookish bow tied teacher did not realize was how little choice the destitute people truly had. There were no honest jobs or employers that the people could depend upon. The mobs operated every social system from corporations to day cares.

Billy listened to the teacher continue to blame the poor for allowing their lives to be controlled. He clenched his pencil tight, scratching graphite holes into his notebook. No matter how hard he tried to lock his anger away, hot adrenaline singed his veins. He kept his head down, hiding his scowl and agitation from his bored classmates.

Billy spent his weekends in those nightmarish streets. He knew there were plenty of innocent people fighting for their lives in that hell. They would be dead or starved if they refrained from hitting back or refused to be scoundrels themselves. In Deerfield, no one's life was threatened by their jobs or neighbors. His weekday community did not know what it was like to live in harsh conditions.

"The kids are suffering most, growing up guided by their parents' activities." Billy's ears perked at the mention of the youth. This partly referred to him, to the two non-school days he spent in the grimy suburbs. At least the teacher recognized the children needed help, he thought.

He was wrong again.

"Twelve years old are being initiated into gangs, think of that, kids your age shooting guns, murdering. The corruption won't end with this new generation. And because the system works for them, neither will it for the next after." Billy heard the chalk on the board, writing notes to be copied into their books and memorized as fact.

He drove the pencil straight through half of his pages, and ripped a large gash down his own notebook. He shot up from his desk. His chair toppled, and with a clean swipe of his hand all his class items fell to the ground. No more prejudiced notes. He was not going to listen as a posh man denied the troubles of the poor. Especially after the teacher's bigotry had almost offended him directly.

If he did not leave now, he would get violent. He was already hoping his scene was enough to make the guy shut up. His fingers were twitching to start tossing desks across the room and shredding the government hierarchy posters on the walls.

"Billy! Do you feel ill?" The teacher squeaked.

No, he did not initially, but the false concern in the question made him want to vomit.

Without answering, or providing even a detail of reason for his display, Billy marched to the back, and out the door. His classmates could think whatever of his blow out. His teacher could call the principal to send home. It did not faze him; he just needed to get away from that intolerant bookworm and the dimwits he called friends.

The hall was empty, a cave of evergreen lockers, bleached tile, and buzzing florescent lights. Billy stomped toward the rear of the school, not quite sure where he was heading. Adrenaline was pumping through him and his muscles were straining for some physical exercise to use up all the extra energy. But he could not go to the weight room; administration would find him too quick and stuff him into a chair in the guidance or principal's office. Somewhere in the woods behind the lacrosse and soccer fields would probably be his best hiding spot. He could probably spend a few hours there, bloodying his knuckles against trees until he cooled off.

No one stopped him. He heard his teacher's call twice from the classroom door and did not turn back. Another set of feet went running in the opposite direction down the hall, probably heading to get the vice principle or the counselors. In the classrooms with open doors, the teachers and students turned surprised faces as he jaunted past. However, they did not realize his flee and did not think to impede.

At the emergency exit, he pushed right through, unconcerned for any alarms. He was lucky no audible sirens went off. Daylight was blinded him, but he pushed forward into fresh air. Shouts and a crowd of voices blasted his ears before he saw anything. He assumed a physical Education class was in progress. Without pause, Billy walked straight ahead. His eyes adjusted as he trekked across the grass toward the fields, and he saw that he had indeed guessed correctly about the noise. His football coach, Mr. Stevens, was refereeing a half field soccer shooting drill for fifteen or so freshman. Everyone standing in line to kick the ball was looking at was the sole student out of the school building without a chaperone. It was an unusual sight.

Billy's scowl deepened and he forced his gaze onto the woods across the pitch. He picked his pace up to all but a run, risking his balance just to get out of eyesight a little faster. His knuckles were aching, his arms quivering with the built up tension. He had just reached the white lines on the other side of the field when his coach jogged after him. If Billy hadn't been so taut and disturbed, he would have waved to the old guy and made a joke about the scrimmage they lost last week.

Now, he merely halted rigidly at Mr. Stevens' call. In between the team benches and the scorekeeper's metal folding chair, Billy waited and tried to think of how to convince his coach to let him be.

He bit hard his jaw, preparing to tell Mr. Stevens that he was better left alone.

"Billy! Where are you going?" The fat man barked.

"Out back." Billy deadpanned honestly.

It was then that Mr. Stevens sensed the stress in the boy. He backed up a step, and looked him less sternly in the eyes. But he did not take enough caution, and kept demanding conversation.

"Which class are you supposed to be in? Is there some trouble?"

"Never mind it, I'm just taking a break for a while." He did not want his coach prying anymore. He just wanted to go and cool dawn.

"Come on, I'll take you to the office to sort this out." No. That was the last thing he wanted to do. Having a guidance counselor prodding him for explanations and learning just how opposite ends of the spectrum his divorced parents lived. As soon as the counselor discovered how he slummed his weekends with felons, his whole reputation would be ruined. The teachers would turn on him like he was a mobster twenty four seven.

Now desperate, Billy turned, ready to flee. His coach called his name, and reached for his shoulder. He shrugged out of the grasp, but the hand came clawing back at him. Mr. Stevens was an aggressive person. He would drag Billy to the office if he had to. And Coach was thick; Billy was scrawny comparatively.

Billy panicked, and his rage slipped. He would not be forced anywhere. Mr. Stevens had no right to touch him. No one in the school had any right to belittle or berate him. Automatically, he grabbed the scorekeeper chair at it's top, letting it fold into a plane. He swung it hard around his backside. The square metal seat banged on Mr. Steven's shoulder. The man's face let out a shout, but it was more in surprise than pain.

Billy did not realize that Mr. Stevens tried to flee then. He was reacting automatically when he whacked the chair against him a second time.

Instincts took over him; instincts he had developed defending himself in the South Boston streets. He struck again before Mr. Steven's had a chance to retaliate. The chair crashed hard once more on his coaches' shoulder. Billy released his emotions, letting rage accelerate and add force to the blows. He lifted the chair high, and brought a severe strike down on Mr. Steven's head. His coach sank to his knees, and Billy got a clean shot at the side of his dome. When he wasn't swinging the chair, Billy was kicking.

Billy did not think about his situation; he instead acted as though he were back in the projects. He was only concerned with pummeling his coach to point that he could not draw a gun on him. The offense was meant to incapacitate the man. A few spare seconds, that's all an opponent would need to fire a shot through his head. But even after he had knocked his aggressor unconscious, Billy still kept kicking, punching and grunting.

His rage was surging out of him with too much pressure to block. He was pummeling the fallen body, bruising his own shins and knuckles. Every hit gave him momentary relief from his turmoil. Like an addict he kept diving in for more.

Billy did not stop himself.

The principle and other physical education teachers detained him face first in the grass and dirt. Cops and an ambulance arrived to take both him and Mr. Steven's respectively. Billy regretted everything when his mind settled. The worst regret was that his spectacle had just made the government teacher appear wise.

_I think I will try to write more like this one. But that is all for today. _


	5. Guilt for others wrongs

_But if we are living in the light, as God is in the light, then we have fellowship with each other, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, cleanses us from all sin. If we claim we have no sin, we are only fooling ourselves and not living in the truth. But if we confess our sins to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all wickedness._

-John 1:7-9

It was ten thirty on Monday morning: too late for people to be going into work, too early for lunch, and in between the hours. A badge-less Captain Queenan sauntered through the half empty streets, the sun pounding on his back, his nape moist and beginning to darken the blue collar of his blouse. A thin layer of perspiration on his skin made his blouse and dress pants stick uncomfortably to the creases of his old frame. He had been subtly peeling the damp clothes off him for a while. They just kept pasting right back in place.

He fidgeted again, tugging on his sleeves to straighten the bunching folds under his armpits. The warm seventy degree day was responsible for some sweating, but not this much. Furthermore, Queenan had felt a little bothered back in his air conditioned office. Something else besides the sun was burning him.

At ten forty three he came to a corner street, marked by a simple but majestic Gothic structure. It was a building of gray stone bricks, as tall as its three story neighbor, and crowned in spires. On its face were a wide cascading staircase, two towering doors like oaken gates, and four thin, narrow windows placed symmetrically in each corner of the wall. Queenan glanced up to the centered spire of the roof; it stood out like a teacher amongst elementary students, raising a silver cross above all heads.

The yellow sunbeams focused on the cross, were absorbed, and reflected back an immaculate white. The majority of purified rays scattered over the sky, but a few were directed downward, creating a bubbled pattern on the sidewalk. The four stained glass windows added to the light display, drawing lines of red wine and olive green shadows like tears down the wall. It looked like the building was weeping two royal hued streams, lamenting all the victims of others' sins.

The church was not weeping for Queenan; he fell into the category of the wrong doers.

He stepped forward into the crosses' array of piercing eyes. A hundred little dots marred his body, burrowing invisible holes into his skin. They saw past his flesh, into his soul, and he simply felt he was in the gaze of the Lord. All his past immoral deeds plagued him, unburied on their own command to be judged. Queenan's was forgetting to breath, so ensnared by his thoughts.

One shrouded all the rest, suffocating his dignity under a black cloth. It was his most recent sin, the one he came to confess. Swallowing on a dry mouth, Queenan continued his slow march up the smooth edge stairs. He carried his weight as though it had compacted all on his shoulders.

By the time he reached the doors, he was panting, his blouse now thoroughly soaked. One gate had been set askew, welcoming him inside, the other closed tight. The locked door was what he deserved but he chose the former, slipping inside the crack and breaking into a home that he could no longer call his.

Two columns of ornate wooden pews split the one interior room. An aisle formed like a chasm down the center, ushering all flow toward a magnificent alter standing proudly at the head of the church. The floor tiles were grouted and flecked with golden lines, glistening where light bounced off their surface. Up front, to the right of the alter, was a podium of similar style. Both were made entirely of glass, sparkling in the lemony glow of in ground spotlights. Bouquets of lilies and daffodils and thick emerald sashes draped over their legs and across their tops, filling out the skinny clear shapes with lush curves. Spread along the length of the altar's underbelly, was a glass sheet with a crystalline image also bordered by flora and cloth. Delicate frosty lines swirled over the center of the icy plain, drawing the form of a woman, an infant, a father and manger. More white tendrils whisked up humble donkeys, doves, pigs, sheep, and hens, all crowded around and watching the family in silence.

Queenan bowed his head in respect for the figures, and then gazed down on the pews. The hall was empty save for one other person. A bald held peeked up in the front row, facing forward and bent low. The praying man did not acknowledge the new visitor, neither did Queenan disturb him.

Two wooden stands stood on either side of the entrance. They were carved elegantly, with a tripod of curling feet, a stretched thin stem, and four spiny fingers flushed and folded barely over the edge of a marble bowl set upon its head. Holy water half-filled the bowl, cuddling up along the edges.

Noiselessly, Queenan dipped his two fingers into to tepid liquid. He signed the cross, touching his slick fingers to his forehead, chest and shoulders. Keeping his head bent to the ground, he briskly strode around the outskirts of the pews, and along the left side wall leading up front. All around, hundreds of painted saints and statues of the holy family gazed upon him. He passed through some of their vibrant shadows, cast over him by the converted light coming in through the stained glass windows.

He did not dare look up, not while the holy water beaded on the outside of his skin and clothes like oil. That it did not sink in he took as another sign to indicate he was intruding on God's house. Queenan let his feet guide him, as his heart thudded heavily. He shuffled past the pews, his brow deepening further upon each step.

And then, he slowed to a crawl. The statues and wall murals were still staring, whispering that they had seen through him, to the thief and murderer under his suit and tie. He had lied and shamed all of the devoted, and no matter how sorry and wretched he felt, he would keep lying for years to come. Queenan almost turned around.

Thankfully, his hand gripped onto the nearest pew, and held him to the spot. Taking the last of his willpower, he commanded himself to stay. He had come within feet of his destination, and regardless of whereto he fled; he would never escape from the Lord. Using his hand as a tether on the last few pews, he pulled himself aside a wooden crossed patterned door.

Like the front gate, it was slightly askew, inviting him to enter. Queenan took a draw of breath, sighed in melancholy, and barged his overweight frame through.

The room was a box the size of a closet. It had a low seated bench, and a dim flame lamp hanging from the ceiling corner. The walls were a blackened magenta, eating up the small candle light. A grate had been drilled into the wall next to the bench, a sheer coal drape dropped down on the other side preventing him from seeing through. After, Queenan had clicked the door's latch shut and taken a seat on the sturdy wood, a breeze shifted the drape. Instead of looking at the motion, he forced his eyes to lift and fix onto a small wooden carving nailed in the door's backside. It was of stoic Jesus dying on the cross. The Lord's son faced him, more interested in Queenan's intrusion than his own bleeding appendages.

A low whispering voice sifted through the grate.

"Ask for a blessing and we can begin."

Queenan folded his hands as though if to pray, but asked for nothing. He mustered the last of his strength and spoke.

"I am sorry Father, I cannot. I am burdened by my sins, but I am not repentant."

There was quiet in the adjacent room. It lasted a while.

"Tell me anyway son, so that I may pray for you."

It was not a command he could easily follow. The words stuck in Queenan's mouth with the texture and taste of tree sap, but he choked them out.

"Last week, I lied and murdered. This week I did worse. I have fully accepted that I place a value on lives, and have been making decisions beyond my power as a servant to God."

The priest knew he spoke in the spiritual and not the physical sense. Queenan had not actually murdered anyone, but he took blame for those who were dead because of him. A family, a mother, a father, and their teenage son had been killed by Frank Costello's men. As usual, there was insufficient evidence to link the deaths back to Costello, but the entire department and all the slum bags in the city knew who had ordered the act.

Queenan let Frank Costello stay on the streets. He could have arrested the mobster for financial reasons, but he would not be able to hold Costello for long. So, he chose the alternative, to leave the murderer amongst the public until he could build an actual case. And because he allowed the man his freedom, Queenan felt responsible for everyone Costello harmed. Not many understood this guilt, but the priests did, for they too carried the weight of others' pain on their souls.

"It was a family this time, I deemed less important than the rest of society."

There was another pause, and Queenan almost continued. The priest replied as Queenan opened his lips, cutting off his speech.

"But you do not believe so in your heart. God will forgive if you ask."

Queenan chuckled morbidly. He could not repent yet; not while he was going to let more families suffer and unlucky people die. The priest had been telling him the same thing every time, and that he hadn't repented in years was Queenan's greatest shame.

"Not until this is over. When it is, I'll spend the rest of my life in this box."

"And the idea of using an undercover agent? Have you made your mind on that subject?" The priest inquired. All the humor disappeared, and Queenan was back to fidgeting his thumbs.

The firelight behind suddenly came to life. The glow beamed on the red walls, turning the confessional into a flaming prison. He looked at Jesus on the wall, as his clothes soaked once more with sweat. The Lord did nothing, but silently watch as he burned.

"I am going to try it." He choked, ringing the wet collar clamped on his throat. "I found someone, a kid. He may not work; he may not be an honest guy. If he is though, then I am going to ruin his life."

The priest's voice hardly needed to think over his response. He was prepared for Queenan's decision, and had a verse ready.

"It is as God told Abraham,_ 'Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains of which I shall tell you.' _You are choosing to sacrifice an unwilling victim in order to keep the Lord's order safe for the whole. God will understand, and will intervene when your strife pleases Him." (Genesis 22:2)

Queenan could not disagree, as much as he wished he could, and despairingly he finally submitted himself over the red shadow flames on the walls. The holy water on his forehead and in his clothes had been washed away by his sweat and the statue of Jesus remained just as enigmatic as when he had entered. Jesus refused to speak to him. Queenan was an outcast of heaven.

"The kid will say he's willing, but he won't understand all the consequences until he's out there. But I need him. Nothing else has worked yet, and the department won't make headway if we keep banging on the outside door."

His temple in hands, he pushed back at his hollow stomach. It hurt more now than ever. Unable to speak on the matter any longer, he told the priest he was done. The priest accepted his desire to leave. He did not give Queenan a confessional prayer, but he blessed him anyways.

"I know you refuse to pray, but you may speak with the Lord anytime. He will listen and understand your plight. I will also help shoulder your burden and ask all holy to aid you quickly through these trials. I bless you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost."

Queenan almost sputtered as the flames suddenly doused and cool air rushed around him. He had been expecting it, but the shift still shocked him. This instant relief was why he kept visiting the church so frequently. It was worth the torture of the Lord's disgrace, for the priest to make his parting statement. Even if he did not feel blessed, that the Father remained in faith of him kept his flickering hope alive.

He took a few minutes to calm his racing heart, and relax. Then Queenan forced his sore legs to stand. He said his last words to the dark drape.

"Thank you Father, I'll see you next week, or will call if needing you sooner."

Forcing himself to hold composure, he made the same shameful walk back to the church doors. The guilt would never go away. He did not ask for the Lord to ease it either. Queenan lived with his wrongs, and only hoped that the heavens would realize he meant to do right.

_This was too long...and not at all good! :( I like the idea, I just need to get my head in the game to write..._


	6. Weekends Spent

_I think when you're 10 years old, it's too much to see something with the threat of death in every episode. Kids are better left naive about certain things._

-J.J. Abrams

Saying he spent the weekends with his father was only half true. Sometimes they went out to baseball games or visited amusement parks. Most of the time, William Costigan Sr. left his young son at home and went off to work. So Billy Jr. actually passed the majority of his weekends with the local kids. A few blocks away, beyond the city apartment buildings there was a town of shacks. His father's buddies lived in that town. Billy had visited it so often he made more friends there than he did in his father's building.

He liked hanging out with his shanty home friends better. For one reason, they were all Irish like him. They spoke with a similar accent: never commenting that he sounded like a jaw breaker was in his mouth. Also because of heritage, their mothers cooked the same meals as his, so they neither thought his tastes or fancy for potatoes strange. The major source of preference for them though was the freedom with which they explored the streets. The kids of the clean, glassy apartment building were like prisoners in comparison.

The sons and daughters where his father lived stuck to their rooms, trapped by parental law. His friends of the town never seemed to be confined. They traveled to and from the stores, played in the district school playground, and biked on the streets without supervision. Billy had not even met half of those friends' parents because they were simply never around. Similarly, they all knew his father's name, but only a handful had ever come face to face with the older man.

Billy Sr. allowed Billy Jr. to go off on his own in the neighborhoods and Billy relished that liberty. Sometimes, he actually wished his father would have to work on Saturdays and Sundays, just so he could go hang with his peers.

He would be off walking to the edge of the city as soon as his father left the apartment, passing joggers and dog walkers on his way. It was interesting how the scenery degraded as he went. The skyscrapers and stone architecture of the city would continually shrink, turning first to red and gray brick, then to wood. The houses and stores down some five or so blocks further were downgraded more. He categorized these by tarp covered holes in their roofs, chipping paint, small piles of cigarrete butts and old tin cans spread over the streets. Nevertheless, Billy was too young and carefree to be bothered by the conditions.

On Saturdays, he would run straight to one of the neighborhood children's bedroom windows. It wasn't odd for him to do this, all the kids knocked on each others' windows, never going to doors. On Sundays, masses would still be in session when he arrived. He would wait outside the church's picket fence, ripping the corners off the taffy colored fliers until the crowd started bustling out.

There was an unspoken precedent that when outside, kids hung out in groups large than two. In that sense, Billy was a contrary case half the time; he flitted around from group to group more often than others. Since he only visited on the weekends, it was hard for him to cement any dominant friendships. His close pals would get bored waiting five days of the week, just to meet up with him for two.

Besides he did not really fall under need of the grouping rule. Most did that for protection from older bullies. Billy did not have much to fear from the big kids. The reluctance to pester him had something to do with his family, though he he did not quite know why. All Billy understood was that his father was well respected and had a lot of coworkers living in the area who kept an eye out for Billy's safety. Billy wasn't let entirely off the hook, but he never felt over his head. For his own amusement, he learned to fight in occasional small fist rumbles.

Those skirmishes were few and far in between though, and not at all a representative of his daily activities. Most of the times, he went with his friends to the school to play baseball and kickball on the back dirt fields. Sometimes they spent hours perfecting a sidewalk motocross course, taking turns riding someone's rusty bike over the plywood jumps and trashcan hills. He also took lots of trips to the corner stores to buy and gorge on the unhealthiest snacks on the shelves.

At the end of the afternoon, either Billy walked home, or if he saw his father's sedan passing through, he would ask for a ride. His father did not ask how his day went, but Billy had the inkling that spying neighbors or the adults hanging out on the streets gave his old man details. The clue: on their joint visits, Billy Sr. often told him to go play with whoever he'd been with the last time. Billy did not mind, he was still independent when roaming the streets and that's what he favored most.

_Billy wasn't always a surly cannon. It seems like that would have developed later due to his childhood circumstances. So, in the beginning there must have been things he liked about the rundown streets. Things which he could later reflect on to inspire him to be a cop and protect the people.  
_

_Also, I am happy because this is under 1000 words. The count is 961.  
_


	7. The Best Job Ever

_Happiness and moral duty are inseparably connected._

-George Washington

The call came in at three in the afternoon. Twenty minutes. That was all the time Mr. French allotted Billy to be dressed and out on the curb. Normally that would have been fine. He could have dragged a pair of jeans over his ass, sunk a hand gun in an inner jacket pocket, and been ready on the spot.

But he just could not convince himself to move right now.

He was in the most pathetic and shit shape of his life. His limbs weighed heavier than any number of physical pounds, the skin around his face sagged right off his bones. Even his feeble effort to sit up took a full exertion, and once his torso was off the couch seat, it swayed and hunched right into the back cushions. There were ten minutes left to stand and walk out the front door. He couldn't do it.

Despite the worse effects of not showing up, Billy wished he simply would pass out. That way, when Mr. French barged into Sean's apartment, he at least would not be conscious for the reaming. But there was no chance of his mind blacking without a good dosage of Sean's house stocks and he was trying his best to stay away from non prescriptions.

Exhaustion should have been able to take him anytime, though it never did. Nor was his emotional distress kind enough to knock him out. He was so unfortunately lucky. Because he was always awake, he never accidentally missed out on gigs.

Eight minutes left. Mr. French was meticulous in everything, and Billy would be jammed into a hole of shit as punishment for not waiting where asked. He told himself he did not give a fuck. He was so damn tired of everything. He did not sleep, but he had plenty of nightmares. At all times he felt like eyes were on him, gripped tightly onto the blades of his shoulders. He heard several f aux clicks of guns cocking, and daydreamed of barrels or knives pressed discreetly against him. Laughter and bar scenes scared the shit out of Billy; he constantly prepared for a surprise strike, an instant eruption of violence and pain. Murder, whether imagined or not, was all he ever saw in life anymore. Often, it was his own impending death which he saw wherever he went.

Four minutes left, and fear plastered Billy's limbs in a thick cast.

That was only partially responsible for his immobility, for it was his utter bodily weakness that kept him from breaking free. He did not have the strength to do it, to invade another small business or home and threaten the lives of regular people. He had spent his life striving to protect those people, not to wave guns in their faces and beat their teeth out. If he had to bludgeon one more man, Billy was going to turn the gun on himself.

One minute left, Billy's legs stood sturdy of their own accord and dragged him out to the front gate. He had nothing to say for his upper body, which fell forward ready to detach. It was a terrible glitch of his autopilot mode to go outside. He surely would look even more sketchy fumbling through the whole event like a coward than if he had just skipped. His expiration date for the role of a mobster had come; Billy simply could not hold up any longer.

The ebony sedan smoothly braked to a stop so that the passenger door was under his dangling fingertips. Billy tipped his cardinal cap, fidgeting on his nerves and got in. The first words spoken as the car drove on rattled his spine.

"If it's anything personal, I don't want to hear it."

"Nah, Nah. Just wakin' up is all." He tried to crack his neck, hoping it would discharge some of the tension in him.

The rest of the fifteen minute drive was mundane, spent with the car slowly crawling through one intersection to the next, down the narrow suburban streets. Mr. French mulled over a few thoughts. Billy fretted about what consequences would occur when he was unable to harm whichever citizen they were meeting. Thankfully, Mr. French did not order he enter with his gun in hand.

They parked outside of someone's home, its half caved porch the only remarkable feature amongst the other destitute shacks. Mr. French navigated around the sinkholes in the wood first; Billy followed after him like a zombie. Billy's usual job was to ensure safety, but he did not care.

His hands hung straight, as he walked in and out of the rooms checking for unintended visitors. He would not have made a fist or flinched if he found anyone. That did not matter though, for the house was clear, and he met up with Mr. French and the victims in the T.V. area unharmed.

They were in mid interrogation, his cohort giving the usual twenty question game about how much and why money was owed. It was right as Billy entered that he noticed the young age of one of the targets. The Irish girl was just barely a teen, dressed in jeans and a creamsicle colored tee-shirt. Yet, he had not seen an ounce of evidence that this guy had children while going through the home.

"HEY!" Billy shouted before he thought anything else. "Kid, is he any sort of family to you?"

He caught Mr. French's curious face, but focused on the trembling headshake of the child. That's when Billy went livid. He stomped forward, grabbed her orange shirt collar and tugged her onto her feet. Without pause, he dragged her gagging to the door and swung her outside.

"Go home. This business hasn't anything to do with you." He spat.

He did not miss her brief expression of relief, but he slammed the door on her face anyways.

"You fuckin' bastard." He marched back to the skinny roach of a man. His dead fist raised for a swing greater than anything he had thrown before, his eyes gorging on the terror of the target.

A hand on his shoulder just barely restrained him from getting close enough to begin the hammering. It was Mr. French, his stern gaze telling Billy to reign in his rage. Billy's courage failed him, aware that he had probably just blown a tremendous amount of trust by his prior actions, but the fire burning in his guts stayed strong. He would have to later regret that his partner saw his anger, because there was no way of dousing it at this point.

But Mr. French did not give him a skeptical or traitorous glare. He glanced at the roach, sighed, and lifted an uncompassionate face to Billy.

"Take one hit. Then wait for me in the car." He ordered.

Billy was smart enough not to question, and made sure his allowance was fully spent. He snapped the target's jaw in two, and left with the man howling and moaning, his lower mouth fallen off its hinge. Billy complied with the second part of the order, and immediately went to wait in the passenger seat while negotiations finished up. His wrist felt broken, and Mr. French would be twice as angry since now the guy could only mumble, but he felt a lot better than he had earlier.

He thought he couldn't hit another man, but all he wanted to do right now was just that.

His boss emerged half an hour later, cursing about the time extension to their job. He shut up though when he sat in the car and started the engine. Unnervingly calm, he drove out onto the empty streets. Billy decided he would have to start pleading mercy for his own future's sake.

"I'm sorry I lost it…"

"Don't be." Mr. French cut off. "We were all kids once. I understand."

That was all Mr. French ever spoke of the matter, and Billy knew not to pry. He nodded and watched the road ahead, finally really feeling like a cop for the first time in his life.

_This was heartwarming to write, and it is by far my favorite yet, though I hope it won't be for long. I want to keep practicing and get better at writing._


End file.
